


Nec Spe Nec Metu (or: the story of two boys in love)

by OLTRX



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Artists, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prostitution, Religion, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OLTRX/pseuds/OLTRX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were still lying there together when the first crackle of thunder came, and the first few drops of rain jetting through the giant gap in Derek’s ceiling. Stiles watched him curse, and run to grab what looked like a fractured door from the corner of the room, before angling it up and fitting it in a very makeshift way into the hole.<br/>Stiles, now fully clothed, made his way over, and stood with the now drenched-Derek under the leakage. A few drops of water landed on his forehead, and he rubbed them around.<br/>“That’s a good look on you,” Stiles said, and it was– wet shirt clinging to Derek’s muscular chest. Derek rolled his eyes, and drew him in for another kiss.</p>
<p>Historical AU. Derek is a painter, Stiles is a prostitute, together they're one of the most troubled couples in history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nec Spe Nec Metu (or: the story of two boys in love)

The first time Derek saw him was across the pews at church, beneath the arches and the columns. He was talking to someone who had their back turned, underneath a restrained statue of the angel Gabriel, eyes closed, hands folded, wings spread out to the heavens. Derek scuffed the bottoms of his boots against the ground when he walked, and trailed dirt all the way over to the old Last Judgement painting, where he watched him talking. He is hands were turbulent in front of him, his eyes fiery, smile wicked. His fingers caught the air and twirled it, nature was at his command, and between his palms he was engineering some sort of tempest. Derek was instantly mesmerized. Meters away with the chaos and noise of the entire congregation leaving post mass between them, he couldn’t hear a word, but he was enthralled by their conversation. Whoever he was talking to seemed to chuckle, but he hardly took notice. A strand of hair had fallen down into his face, and he quickly reached up a finger to twirl it around, toying with it for a few moments, before tucking it back.

“Derek!” someone called, and he reluctantly turned. Scott stood behind him, broad smile on his face. He was holding some kind of scroll in his hand.

“What?” Derek asked. He glanced back, only to see he’d vanished. He clenched his jaw and turned back to Scott.

“I’ve just been speaking with Deaton,” Scott said. “He’s agreeing to meet with you, but he’s only free right now.”

“Right this moment?” Derek asked, eyebrows raised. “No other time?”

“Yes, right now, come on,” Scott said, and began walking towards the door. Well, when he said ‘walking’– Scott was a very energetic man, and he was always jogging, or skipping, or sprinting wherever he went. For him, his mildest walking was always just a subdued version of one of those, and Derek still found himself moving quicker than he liked to catch up.

Deaton couldn’t’ve been where they were less than ten minutes ago, and yet he was probably almost home already, courtesy of his horse-drawn carriage. Derek and

Scott got to jog instead. Scott was of high enough social standing that one might expect him to have these luxuries; however, his father was a gambler, and had landed himself and his family firmly in debt. Despite this, he still enjoyed many privileges of his class– such as being well connected. To people like Deaton, for example.

Passing through the cobble-stone alleyways of Rome, Derek almost got splashed by a woman throwing water out her window, and heard more than one angry hissing of a cat he’d managed to scare off. They passed by the bar, and Peter’s whore house. It couldn’t’ve been more than fifteen minutes before they finally made it.

Deaton lived in an incredibly tall, ornate building with heavy wooden double doors and enormous windows. Parallel stone cupids blew water from their horns on either side of the entrance. Scott firmly grasped the metal knocker and rapped it against the door four times.

During the four seconds it took for a response, he gave Derek what he’s sure was intended to be a reassuring look. As the servant opened the door, he put one hand on Derek’s forearm.

“Just, ah, don’t get angry this time, okay?” Scott said. Derek turned his surly gaze towards one of the horses in the nearby stables. “Deaton’s pretty patient, but I wouldn’t push him. I worked pretty hard to convince him to talk to you, too. Of course, if you can keep your cool long enough to show him your work... It’ll be great. I promise.”

Scott made a lot of promises, Derek thought as he followed him in.

Somewhere to his left, he could distantly hear the sound of a small band playing. Hands inside his pockets, not touching anything, he waited.

“I keep thinking about that wall,” someone said behind him. A medium sized, darker skinned man in purple velvet. Derek followed the point of his perfectly clean finger to the expanse of cool white marble. The man, who he assumed to be Deaton, started walking towards it. “Almost all of its sisters and brothers are occupied by something, but that wall– not a fireplace, not a statue, not a portrait.”

What a luxury, Derek thought. He examined his own fingers; nails rimmed by black paint and dark dirt. He had left an unapologetic trail of brown footprints coming in.

At least there weren’t carpets, he thought. That might get him into some real trouble. Scott was uncharacteristically silent, so he looked up and realized he was probably supposed to speak.

“What do you have in mind?” Derek asked.

“A painting,” Deaton said with a calculated smirk. “And I suppose that must be where you come in.”

“Derek Hale,” Derek said, bowing quickly and extending his stand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you,” Deaton said. He had a firm grip, and a firmer handshake. “Scott’s said a lot of good things. He claims you’re the best painter of this era.”

“I’ll do what I can to prove him right,” Derek said.

“Have you brought a sample piece with you?” Deaton asked.

“No, I–” Derek began, but noticed belatedly Scott’s apologetic look.

“I dropped by Peter’s on the way over,” Scott said. Ah. So that was the scroll, then. He passed it over to Deaton, who pinched the edges and let the canvass unroll on its own.

“Which one is that?” Derek whispered.

“The portrait of Erica,” Scott replied. Derek raised his eyebrows. The portrait he’d done of Erica– that was as much an advertisement for Peter’s business as it was an advertisement for his own. A traditional nude in many ways, perhaps, but laced with just a bit more.

“What were you thinking?” Derek asked. Scott shrugged. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Deaton looked back up.

“You did this?” Deaton asked.

“Of course,” Derek asked.

“I recognize the way you painted the fruit,” Deaton said. “From who did you receive your formal training?”

“I studied under Harris for several years,” Derek said. Deaton’s smile softened.

“And he taught you how to paint the grapes in such a perfect way?” Deaton said.

“To the contrary, I was painting grapes for him the moment I stepped foot inside his studio,” Derek said. Scott gave him shifty eyes, but Deaton looked pleased.

“Harris has always been a fool,” Deaton said. He handed the unrolled canvas back to Derek, and they all three went back to facing the wall. “I want something large, that will take up most but not all of the space. At least five feet wide, three feet tall.”

“I can do that,” Derek said.

“You can work at home, but I’d like you to work here,” Deaton said. “I feel that artists sometimes work better when there’s music playing, and I’m willing to provide food on occasion. Truthfully, I quite enjoy watching the artistic process.”

 

Derek nodded, and Scott flashed him a thumbs up over Deaton’s shoulder.

“Do you have subject matter in mind?” Derek asked. “A scene at the cross? Or perhaps an old Greek scene?”

Deaton swiped a thumb across his lower lip and shook his head, then began pacing towards one of the windows.

“I realize it’s somewhat... unorthodox, but I have different request of you,” Deaton said. “The other day, me and my compatriot rode were riding through town to visit a very old friend, and our carriage caught in a pothole. The wheel was damaged, and while he went to fetch a new wheel from the carpenter just down the way who we’re in frequent contact with I stood outside the local bar and watched the goings-ons. Of course, being a man of such wealth and status, I couldn’t enter, but through the window I was able to make out a card game taking place.”

He paused there as if he were going to continue, but then said nothing.

“A card game...?” Derek prompted.

“Yes,” Deaton said. Derek waited a moment for the shock to pass.

“You can’t be serious. That’s your subject?” Derek asked. Deaton quirked an eyebrow, and Derek held his breath. God, he did it again. But Deaton only continued smirking.

“I told you it was might not be expected. But truth be told, I am fascinated by these social structures,” Deaton said. He held Derek’s gaze. “I won’t be too offended if you decline.”

It took a moment and a nudge from Scott for Derek to regain composure and splutter out an answer.

“I’ll do it,” Derek said. Deaton grinned.

“Fantastic,” he replied. “We can negotiate prices later. I have business to attend to.”

With that, Deaton turned on his heels and vanished through one of the many doors. The band paused, and then changed songs.

Scott smiled wide and clapped Derek on the shoulder.

“Good job!” Scott said. The servant showed them out. “Did you hear that? Lunch! I knew Deaton was a nice guy, but you’ve really gotten lucky with this job.”

“I know,” Derek said. He was lucky to even get a commission at all, really. He’d been tossed out of peoples houses... Well, more times than he cared to count. All his own fault, of course, but did patrons always have to be so rude? Deaton was unusually respectful, which Derek admired.

He and Scott walked together a few blocks, a little bit slower now that there wasn’t any rush, and then they parted ways.

“I’m going to visit the Argents,” Scott said, somewhat unnecessarily. He was always there, now that he’d met Allison; even when he wasn’t totally welcome.

Derek waved him goodbye, and then continued on his way. Soon, he was in front of Peter’s place, and then inside. He bypassed his uncle’s office all together and went straight upstairs, waiting outside the door to Erica’s room until the grunting noises inside stopped and an old fat man with three missing teeth exited. Erica came to her door with a quirked eyebrow, and twiddled the little sign Derek made for her (on one side– ‘occupied’; the other– ‘empty’) while she watched her client pass through the stairwell.

Finally, when he was gone, she looked up at Derek with a sultry light and a grin and tapped the sign.

“Should I flip it to Empty, or leave it as it is?” she asked. But Derek had known her long enough to see through her bravado and lip stain. He smiled sadly at her and walked into her room.

“Boyd’s been asking after you,” he said. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, and as soon as she closed the door behind them her expression went sour.

“Boyd can go fuck himself or get a real job,” she said.

“Painting isn’t a real job?” Derek asked. Erica ignored him and looked out the window towards the bar where the man in question was working. “I got a commission today.”

“Did you?” Erica asked.

“I did,” he said. “Deaton.”

“Really?” she asked, taking on a tone of genuine excitement.

“Yeah,” he said. She gave him a quick hug and sat on the bed.

“I’m proud of you for not getting thrown out of their home again,” she said.

“That was pure luck,” Derek said. “Deaton was very gracious. Scott arranged the whole thing.”

“I’m sure he did,” Erica said. “Either way, I’m glad.”

“It goes to show that it can be done,” Derek said. “If someone is very motivated, and persistent–”

“But what kind of money does that make?” Erica asked. “Even if you’re working consistently, could it support two people? Full time?”

“Does it have to?” Derek asked. Erica sighed and leaned back against the wall.

“He expects me to stop,” she said.

“Don’t you want to?” Derek asked. She gave him a look.

“You know I do,” she said. “But I’m not going to starve for some man’s ego.”

“You know Boyd really loves you, though?” Derek said.

“So did Ian,” she said. “You just passed him by, exiting my room. He’s very lonely. We talk sometimes. He tells me about his wife that he hates and how nice and beautiful I am and then I spread my legs to shut him up.”

 

“Boyd wouldn’t–”

“You think so?” she asked. “You don’t know men like I do.”

For a moment, the only sound was the creaking beds and grunts coming in through the thin walls, thin ceiling, thin floor.

“Talk to him,” Derek said softly. Erica ignored him, and Derek started towards the door. “Do I turn it to Empty, or leave it how it is?”

After a long moment, she sighed.

“What does it matter, most of these assholes can’t read anyway,” she said. That was probably true. Derek left it on Occupied. Erica could probably use a break, and if she couldn’t afford dinner he’d steal a few coins from Peter to give her.

 

Peter, who was unavoidable by the time Derek was making his way down the stairs. The door to his office was wide open, and he stood in the doorway, staring straight at Derek as he came. He was stroking his pocket watch with his thumb.

“Derek!” he said. “My dear nephew, how nice to see you!”

“Peter,” Derek said, and kept walking.

“Going out?” Peter asked. Derek ignored him. He took a moment to breathe; feet planted firmly on the cobblestone, eyes closed for the barest moment. It felt like there might be rain soon, though Derek was never sure.

Then, because he’d rather not be pick-pocketed in the middle of the street, he made his way down to the market.

***

Lydia rolled the apple in her hand, squeezed gently, and then replaced it. When she dipped her hand down, the lace of her wrist-cuff dragged gently across the produce. She was not meant to be here. Behind her, across the street, Peter could be seen watching from through the door of his house of ill-repute.

“How long has this been going on for?” Stiles asked, subtly slipping the rejected apple up his sleeve. Lydia held a rose to her face by the stem, fingers gripping close to the flower, and inhaled softly.

“A few weeks now,” she said. “Would you hold this for me? I think I’ll buy it.”

Stiles held out the basket in his arms, and she placed the rose near the edge. It was already half full with fruit; grapes, pears, pomegranates, peaches.

“You know, you don’t have to put up with it,” Stiles said. “We both know you could probably kick his ass, but there’s also accepting Jackson’s proposal...”

“I never thought you’d vouch for Jackson,” Lydia said. A few feet away, one of the market’s salesmen was having a rapid fire argument with an old woman. While they were distracted, a small child grabbed a loaf of bread and ran off giggling with a small dog at it’s heels.

“Neither did I, but, desperate times,” Stiles said. “So why won’t you?”

“I like having options,” Lydia said. “Besides, it’s probably not good to reject your friend’s boss, is it?”

Stiles sighed.

“There are other houses of ill-repute I could serve at,” he said. “Don’t let yourself be courted by the creepy pimp for my benefit, because trust me, that’s the last thing I want.”

She hummed. “Maybe in a few weeks, I’ll let him know. He can waste a little bit more money on me, it’ll be incentive for Jackson to step his game up, everybody wins.”

“No,” Stiles said, “you win, and everybody else is manipulated to your will.”

Lydia smirked.

“How’s Scott, by the way?” she asked.

“You haven’t seen him over at Allison’s?” Stiles asked.

“I haven’t been over to Allison’s,” she said. “For one thing, her parents might not let me in if Peter felt like following me around that day.”

“True,” Stiles said.

“And also, I haven’t been invited,” Lydia said.

“Are you guys going through a rough patch?” Stiles said.

“No. She’s busy with other things, and people,” Lydia said.

“By which you mean Scott,” Stiles said.

“Naturally,” Lydia replied.

“Well, I haven’t seen him recently for the same reason,” Stiles said. “Though I saw him in Church for a few minutes before he ran off. Saw, not spoke to.”

“It’ll all be over when they get married,” Lydia said. “They’ll stop talking immediately and begin to hate each other, and then we’ll have them back.”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles said. “I think they’ll be gone forever once they have the Argents’s blessings. A love so gentle and pure...”

As he was saying this, he fluttered his eyelashes and made a dramatic swooning motion. Then, he hefted the basket back up.

“It’s getting heavy,” Stiles said. “Are you almost done?”

The distant clacking of heels turned both of their heads, and they could see men bearing the Martin family crest approaching.

“Shit,” she said.

“Run!” Stiles said.

“What about the–” she said.

“I’ll take care of it,” Stiles said, and after a quick peck on the cheek she took off down the alley.

“Excuse me,” one of the men called out, and then tapped Stiles on the shoulder with the hilt of his sword. “Have you seen the lady Martin passing through here?”

His disgust was not well concealed. Stiles wasn’t looking too fresh today.

“I haven’t,” Stiles said. “The lady declines to continue keeping presence with such lowly life-forms as myself.”

The man made sure to accidentally rip the sleeve of Stiles’s shirt on his way past. He groaned, and looked down at the basket.

Lydia was not supposed to go down to the market. It wasn’t a place where a lady of such high repute should be seen, and it wasn’t a safe place for those who looked the way she did, wore the clothes, had the beautiful, clean face. But she had a commanding presence, even where she seemed out of place, and she enjoyed that. She wanted to see the fruits that did not make it into her kitchen, she wanted choice, she was determined to exercise her will as often and defiantly as possible. Shopping trips with Stiles were just one example of such.

 

But now, Stiles was caught with a full basket of produce, which he must begin the process of laboriously unloading, lacking the money to buy it himself...

He felt another tap on his shoulder and turned.

The man standing in front of him was around his height, a few inches taller while Stiles was slumped the way he was, with hard eyes and a face that looked like it’d been clean shaven the day before but by now had developed a thin layer of scruff.

When the man didn’t speak, Stiles said, “Hello?” which seemed to take him out of his thoughts and back into the real world.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, “but that looks heavy. Can I help you...?”

“I’m actually just putting all of this back,” Stiles said.

“Purse stolen?” the man asked. Stiles shrugged.

“Something like that,” he said.

“Those peaches look too ripe to toss,” the man said. “Let me buy them.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Stiles said.

“Trust me, this is entirely selfish,” the man said. Stiles glanced back at the doorway, where Peter was no longer standing. He knew what selfish looked like.

“I’m sorry, but still no,” Stiles said.

“I must insist. I’d like to ask you to model for me,” the man said. Stiles raised his eyebrows.

“Model?” Stiles asked. The man raised his hand to catch the attention of a salesman, and dumped a few coins into his palm. “What do you mean, model?”

The salesman walked away, pleased, and the man began to lead him back in the direction of Peter’s. Peter watched them scale the stairs with a bemused expression, and the other man flipped him off.

However, to his surprise, they passed the second floor altogether and went straight up to the third.

“I’m sorry, Peter lives up here, and I’d rather not get fired,” Stiles said. The man shook his head, and pushed them both through one of the doors.

“So do I,” he said.

The room was crowded with things, great wooden boards, long rolls of canvas, large jugs of oils and jars of colorful, opaque powders. Stiles’s jaw dropped.

“You’re a painter,” he said. The man smirked.

“I was expecting you to take to my room and ask me to bend over, but,” Stiles said. He didn’t look for the man’s reaction. “Wow. Did you do Peter’s portrait of Erica?”

“Yes,” the man said. “I’m Derek.”

“Stiles,” Stiles said, and struggled to extend a hand.

“Would you like to take a seat?”

There was one small chair in the room, directly underneath a giant hole in the ceiling. Stiles sat, and as soon as he placed the fruit basket in his lap he sighed and rolled out his arms.

“Why do you want to paint me?” Stiles asked.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek said. Stiles waited for more, but there was none.

“You know what I do?” Stiles said. Derek picked a piece of paper and charcoal of the ground.

“Yes,” Derek said.

“Then I don’t see how you could use me for– for whatever it is you’re thinking of; Jesus, Michael, Bacchus,” Stiles said.

“I don’t,” Derek said. “I’m not.”

Stiles looked at him curiously; scruffy man bent over a sketch, hand moving rapidly. He reached down to pluck off a grape.

“Wait a moment,” Derek said. “I’m not done sketching them yet.”

***

Stiles wound up sitting and holding the basket for a very long time. Much of that time was spent in relative silence; in the whore-house, it was impossible to escape the groans and grunts. But he was just separated enough from it to be able to hear a bird chirping outside.

“How long have you been painting for?” Stiles asked.

“A very long time,” Derek said. They’d shifted to actual painting now, not just drawing. “Move your head back.”

Stiles sighed and rolled his head back into its previous position. The sleeve of his blouse fell down, and he reached a hand to fix it.

“Don’t,” Derek said. His gaze fixed on the pale, exposed skin. Stiles returned his hand to its previous position.

“Why do you paint?” Stiles asked.

“Because I like it,” Derek said.

“Have you always lived in Rome?” Stiles asked.

“You talk a lot,” Derek said.

“I’m bored,” Stiles said. “Entertain me.”

Derek took a deep breath. His eyes flashed back and forth between the shoulder and the canvas.

“Peter and I used to live out in the country,” Derek said. “Most of our family was killed by the plague. He came out here and started his business, I stayed back to wrap up affairs. Got into some trouble.”

“What type of trouble?” Stiles asked.

“Sodomy charges,” Derek said. “The witness never came forward.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said. Derek shrugged.

“Then I came here, with almost nothing left after buying myself out of jail, and started painting for Harris. I found Peter, he offered me a room, I carved a hole in his ceiling, he kicked me out, I came back and payed him a few coins,” Derek said. “What’s your story?”

“My family worked for this high-ranking family, who eventually mostly fell from power because of financial issues,” Stiles said.

“The McCalls?” Derek asked.

“You know them?” Stiles asked.

“I know Scott,” Derek said. Stiles grinned.

“I love Scott. My best buddy. Though I haven’t seen that asshole in weeks, now that he’s been spending so much time over at the Argents’s place. I mean, I probably shouldn’t go around talking about that, it’s really so scandalous isn’t it–”

“I already knew,” Derek said. Stiles gave him a look. “He hooked me up with a patron recently, I haven’t had a commission in a while.”

“That’s a shame, why not?” Stiles asked.

“I’m not easy to work with,” Derek said. Stiles found that a little bit hard to believe. “Then what?”

“Hm?”

“You were telling me your life story,” Derek said.

“Oh, right,” Stiles said. He tried to ignore the itch on his neck. “Well, then my dad died of plague, and my mom had already died in childbirth, and Scott was too busy getting his own shit sorted out to help me, so I fell in with the wrong people, got desperate, and here I am today.”

“Here you are...” Derek said lowly. Stiles contemplated the man before him for another moment; blouse spotted and stained a variety of colors, light catching his dark curls in an attractive way. And of course, there was the way he was scrutinizing what must be one of his many moles. Stiles wanted to squirm.

“Can I see?” he asked. Derek chuckled.

“Not yet,” he replied, then squinted towards the opening in the roof. “Though it looks like the light is failing... we might be done for today.”

“How long does it take to make something like this?” Stiles asked. Derek shrugged.

“Months, sometimes,” Derek said. Stiles’s jaw dropped, but then Derek was making his way over and folding a few golding circles into the crease of his palm. Their faces were level now, Derek’s dark jaw just inches from his own. His pupils were blown wide, and his voice became rougher and lower. “To pay you for your time.”

“And the fruit?” Stiles asked. Derek breathed deeply, and his eyes traced the bow of his lips, the curve of his neck, the bony jut of his exposed shoulder, finally landing on the hands curled around the wicker basket.

“Keep it,” Derek said.

Naturally, automatically, Stiles set the basket down and surged forward to kiss him, and Derek let him, if only for a moment. Then, Derek grabbed him at the nape of the neck and pulled him very gently away.

He dragged his lips, slowly, to Stiles’s jaw, where he placed a kiss, and then down his neck. Stiles shivered under his mouth, and Derek’s grip on his hair tightened ever so slightly, forcing him to release a soft moan.

By the time Derek’s lips made it to his shoulder, he was rock hard and aching; his undone shirt was tugged even further down to reveal his chest, and then Derek’s teeth were on his nipple, scraping across the soft surface there very gently. Stiles shuddered. Derek was so gentle, he wanted to cry, or at the very least sob in frustration. He dropped his hands, and wove them through Derek’s hair.

Then, Derek pulled away from Stiles’s chest and came back up to kiss him, sweetly, passionately, but as he was doing so Stiles could feel him starting to draw away.

“You aren’t going to finish what you started?” Stiles said, pointedly grinding his hips into Derek’s. Derek was stiff too; he could feel it. But Derek just shook his head and stepped back.

“Not right now,” Derek said, stroking his thumb across Stiles’s jaw. “Not today. Not while you feel obligated.”

Stiles leaned away from his touch, and headed for the door.

“Well, if you’re not going to fuck me, I guess I’ll get somebody else to do it for you,” Stiles said. He flipped one of the coins into the air, and caught it again before it hit the ground. “I have work to do.”

Before he was halfway down the hall, he felt Derek’s fingers around his wrist. He didn’t turn, only looked over his shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” Derek said. “Will you model for me again? I’ll pay you.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut.

“Yes, alright,” he said. He barely caught a glimpse of Derek’s wry grin.

Nobody had to know that he waited for the sound of Derek’s door shutting behind him before he continued down the stairs, or the way he skimmed his fingertips over the areas he’d been kissed like a blushing virgin.

At the very bottom of the stairwell, he saw Peter’s disquieting, predatory smirk aimed towards him, and settled back into business rather unsettled.

Sometime between his second and third trick after that, he looked through the window and saw Derek smiling outside the bar, fist wrapped around the handle of a thick mug, drinking wine and jostling elbows with someone from the small crowd surrounding him.

 

Stiles rolled over, and turned his attentions to the knocking at the door.

***

As soon as Derek lay down his money at the bar, he was accosted by Isaac, the cherubic sculptor.

“Have you seen Cora?” Isaac asked, and Derek huffed quietly to himself.

“No,” Derek said. Isaac’s eyes softened. She’d been missing for a few days, out doing god-knows-what, god-knows-where. Derek could only assume that she was out looking for more potential ‘business partners’ for Peter in the countryside, to replace the girls who’d been taken out by the last bout of sickness. Peter wouldn’t say anything when asked, but he was weirdly secretive about business affairs.

“No word? Nothing?” Isaac asked. Derek sighed and took a swig from his cup, then went to sit down at the table where Boyd was already intimidating everyone else away from him.

“Nothing,” Derek said. “Peter’s keeping his mouth shut. But she’s strong, Isaac, and I’m sure she’s fine.”

Cora was strong; she knew her way around a blade better than any other woman and most men that Derek knew, and she could dress passably masculine enough that she wouldn’t be harassed. Her upbringing had been more liberal than Derek’s, she’d been young when their parents died and spent a fair amount of her youth under Peter’s wing, learning how to run business with him, until Derek had arrived and insisted that she receive some minimal education and Peter had hired a math tutor so he could teach her how to balance the books for him.

Isaac, unusually soft and sweet for an impoverished young man growing up in a rough city such as this one, fell hard for her, and perhaps realizing that Isaac was one of the few men she’d ever meet who’d allow her to take the lead in most if not all matters of the relationship, she would occasionally return this affection. An indirect result of this was Isaac spending a lot more time with Derek so he would have a better chance at being near to her (because Peter always tried to seduce him into the ranks of their family’s disenchanted whores), and finally, Isaac and Derek becoming friends.

Isaac was not easily reassured.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear or see anything, alright?” Derek asked. Isaac sighed, and nodded. Boyd took a swig from his cup.

“I heard about your commission,” Boyd said.

“Already?” Derek asked.

“Good job,” Boyd said, and patted him on the back. Isaac gave him a weak smile. “I also heard about Duke’s commission.”

“Duke’s commission?” Derek asked, and his drink sloshed onto the side of his hand, reddening the very edge of his sleeve. “With who?”

“Saint Mary’s,” Boyd said. Derek grit his teeth.

“What are they doing with the painting Derek did for them?” Isaac asked. Boyd’s neutral expression darkened incrementally.

“Yes, Boyd, tell me,” Derek said. “What will they do?”

“They didn’t say,” Boyd said. “Put it out on the street, perhaps; or probably move it to the back. This one’s going to be the main altarpiece now.”

Derek stood abruptly, and his hand twitched towards the handle of the sword dangling off of his hip.

“Are we going out tonight?” Isaac asked, eyes darkened. Behind them, two overweight men clanked glasses and laughed.

“I think we are,” Derek said.

***

Derek Hale was known primarily for two things: his difficult talent, and his street presence.

The city was not much like his home town, where his father had herded sheep and his mother had tended to the manor of one of the local lords. Death existed in the city, more than just incidentally and as a result of accident or disease. There were knives for more than shearing sheep and cutting carrots, and darkness in alleyways untouchable by the light of day.

His small gang started for a few reasons; Peter needed someone other than himself to protect his business, and he wan’t charging Derek that much on rent anyway. Derek couldn’t make that much money as an artist alone, especially when he was starting off. Primarily, though, it was Duke, who’d forced Derek to pick up a sword for the first time and fight for himself. When Derek first took up apprenticeship under Harris, Duke was the favorite, the best at everything, and slowly, Derek began to usurp him in every portion of painting over which Duke maintained control; it was a competitive business, painting was, and Duke was vicious.

And of course, Duke was also part of his own extracurricular group, prowling the grimy cobble-stone street, providing brute protection and intimidation for cash. One hand was fisted in his hair, one held his arms behind his back, and he was beaten and kicked until his torso was purple and his mouth tasted like copper. Peter was hardly sympathetic when he found him sprawled across the gutter the next day, and Cora almost literally kicked him into shape. The next night he, Boyd, and Isaac went out together, and Ennis left their brawl with a severed tendon somewhere along the backside of his leg.

***

Stiles left the brothel a few hours after dark. A light was on inside of Peter’s office, but Stiles didn’t see him as he walked out.

It was far from calm; in this part of the neighborhood, the busiest hours came after nightfall. The streets were teeming, almost every window had a light, shouts and curses spilled like tipped wine out all orifices of the bar. Stiles peered in. A few of his clients were there, cheeks varying shades of feverish-red and with drink spilled down their chins.

He kept walking.

He thought of his father often. John Stilinski was an honest man of the law, who had a certain kind of respect for all people (including troublemakers) and always smelled like alcohol and fresh meat. He definitely wouldn’t approve of what Stiles was doing for work right now, but he probably wouldn’t have disowned him either, or report him to higher authorities, which was all Stiles could really ask for.

Claudia, though, was a different story. John always said that she was a woman of great faith; beautiful, benevolent, but above all else a desperately petrified follower of the word of God. Perhaps her love of Stiles could have overridden that, though he would never know. The walls of this city street were greasy when he brushed up against them; they left a thin residue of muck on his sleeve. He doubted he would ever meet her in Heaven.

He stopped moving just before the bend of a corner when he heard a noise. Voices, shouting.

“What do you think I want?” one party shouted. Stiles peeked forwards– on one side of the courtyard, Derek. Stiles tilted his head curiously. Across from him, briefly obscured in shadow, his opponent. But they were moving– meters away from each other, slowly sidestepping clockwise until the other man’s face was brought into the dim light of the stars.

Duke. Stiles’s eyes grew wider, and he gripped at the corner of the stone wall with whitening fingers. Was his heart really racing so fast? He pressed himself into the architecture.

Duke threw his head back, and laughed rancorously, angular face silhouetted by the white moon.

“What, you didn’t really think that Saint Mary’s would keep that thing on its wall?” he said. Derek was practically foaming at the mouth.

“That thing?” Derek shouted.

“It’s more disaster than painting, your Madonna is severely lacking,” Duke leered, then tsked twice condescendingly. “Which is to say, it looks like a drunk vomited onto your canvas and you took twenty minutes out of your day to smear it around before handing it in to the sisters.”

“My Madonna is beautiful,” Derek said.

“You disgrace her by painting her as a common whore,” Duke said, and then actually spit at Derek’s feet.

With a tremendous bellow, Derek lunged.

Duke’s fist met with Derek’s face with a resounding smack mid-jump; Derek gasped and staggered backwards. Behind him, two other men moved tentatively forwards, and were met halfway by three more figures grinning menacingly in the dark.

Duke wrapped his hand around Derek’s shirt front, and then shot the other one at Derek’s face. Derek kneed him in the crotch, and shoved him so hard he fell backwards.

Immediately, two others were upon Derek, pulling him back. The third figure came upon Derek’s two men, who lifted their fists until something caught there eye in the face of their opponent and they exchanged looks. The opponent kicked and punched, getting a few good hits in, before their hood fell off and sweeping dark hair

pooled around the shoulders.

A girl. And she was kicking both of their asses.

Suddenly, a small boy with a dirty face came sprinting down the alley and ran straight into the middle of the fight.

“The Guardsmen!” he shouted. His tiny face was pink. Everything around him froze instantly. “The Guardsmen are coming!”

Sure enough, Stiles could hear the distant clacking of horses hooves.

“Shit,” Stiles whispered. Duke’s eyes shot up, and then his gaze was locked on the well illuminated figure of Stiles’s face. Then, Stiles looked to Derek’s tight-jawed figure, slumped against the wall. Of course, Duke followed his line of sight with curious precision, and then pulled his lip back in a yellow-toothed lecherous leer.

 

Then, Stiles blinked, and Duke and his gang were disappearing up one side alley, smooth as ink, while Derek’s pack darted past Stiles and started sprinting back towards their bar.

As he passed, Derek jostled Stiles’s shoulder, ripping him off of the wall, and of course Derek had to see that it was Stiles standing there.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked.

“I was out for a walk,” Stiles grumbled.

“Fuck,” Derek cursed into Stiles’s shoulder. “Well, run!”

***

Stiles woke to the sound of a harsh knocking at his door. He wasn’t sure what the time was, but sunlight was streaming through the window over his head, brightly illuminating the dense and dusty air. He groaned, and rolled onto his side, covering his face with his thin pillow.

A few minutes passed before he realized he’d been left alone, surrounded by silence. None of his neighbors were occupied. Nobody outside was making a big fuss. He froze, peering over the edge of the cushion, watching the dust float and settle.

How long had it been?

He recalled the distant press of soil against his heel and between his toes; not dirt, hard packed and well-trodden like they had here, but soft and damp soil, or slick and thicker than paint and muddy after a rain-storm. He remembered shade trees big enough to sleep under and the pitched vibrato of the cicada.

Rancorous laughter downstairs beckoned him back to the present. He threw one leg off the bed, then the next. He pushed himself to his feet with great effort and trotted to the door.

The hall had been vacated, and he looked between doors across from him for a few moments, perplexed, before noticing the basket of fruits at his feet.

***

Derek sat watching disapprovingly on Peter’s desk as exorbitant amounts of rent money changed between his uncle’s hands and Erica’s. Peter, for his part, looked far too pleased.

“The numbers for these things are rather testy, I just hate doing them; you wouldn’t mind stepping in for me, would you Derek?” Peter asked, not a little bit bothered.

“I would mind, actually,” Derek said. “Besides, I’m shit at math. Where’s Cora?”

Peter smirked, and made eye contact for a brief moment before returning to the trying task of scooping coins into his wide palm.

“I see you’ve taken a fancy to one of my boys,” Peter said. Erica quirked an eyebrow curiously in his direction.

“I’m using him for a painting,” Derek said. Peter laughed viciously.

“Oh, is that all?” he said. The smirk never left his face, but God how Derek wanted to tear it off sometimes. “He’s a cute little punk, isn’t he? A favorite with the clients. You’re not even a little bit attracted to him?”

 

“So what if I am?” Derek asked. Peter tutted condescendingly.

“I wouldn’t be so proud of that, if I were you,” Peter said. The sun was just barely starting to set, and the warm glow transformed into sharp yellows and jagged shadows across his face. “It could get you into some real trouble, which, you of all people should know.”

Derek gritted his teeth.

“And so could standing in this filthy room, in this damned house,” he said.

“I’d like to point out that I’m physically cleaner than almost everyone in this city,” Erica said. Derek forced a smile and Peter ignored her.

“In any case, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t distract him too much from his work,” Peter said. He grabbed Erica’s wrist roughly and she gasped in shock. Her lean fingers balled into a fist. He trailed one nail up the length of one cobalt vein on her forearm, from the pinked skin where she was frozen in his grip to the pale crease of her elbow. Derek watched, hands clenched hard around the edge of the desk. Peter was all bark and no bite, he wouldn’t really do anything to her. But what point could he possibly be trying to make? Derek wondered often what Erica’s life before this was like. She was a city girl, born and raised, unlike the majority of people he knew. She was tough. She kept a stiff upper lip and maintained a steady glare. “It’s not so hard to find eager women for this job, but in terms of men... Someone as devoted to this work as Stiles is can be hard to find.”

As soon as his grip loosened, she tore her arm away with such force that she stumbled back half a step.

“I see,” Derek said, but it was empty. She was blinking rapidly, and touching her hair back into place with a quiet but obvious franticness.

“I’m glad we could come to this understanding,” Peter said.

Derek left him there, and offered a hand to Erica who politely declined. Storm clouds were brewing.

His door was open; through the crack, he could see a pale sliver of thigh.

In the failing light, Stiles’s skin possessed a subdued luminescence; smooth, creamy, moon-like. He was lying across Derek’s bed with a sheet pressed across his front. Derek could see, just at the edge of the pale cloth, the subtle grooves of his ribcage, the jaunt of his hipbone, the astronomical pattern of the dark brown freckles dotting the inside of his one exposed thigh down to his ankle. His eyelids were lowered, and Derek was met with a wanton gaze from beneath a thick line of lashes. As Derek watched, Stiles’s lips pulled into a rakish smirk.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked. His voice was hoarse. His palms may have been sweating.

“You were supposed to paint me today,” Stiles said, but hardly sounded disappointed.

“I went to your door earlier, but you were... busy,” Derek said.

“I know,” Stiles said. He stood and stepped gently, softly, slowly, across the floor. With each movement forwards, his grip relaxed and the sheet fell further down, until he was inches away from Derek and holding the cloth loosely in front of his crotch with three fingers.

Derek could smell his breath, his sweat. He could feel the thin hum of heat and energy thrumming off of Stiles’s skin. One eye flicked down, and he saw the small pink disc of Stiles’s nipple. When he looked back up again, Stiles’s cheeks had flushed.

“I wasn’t planning on painting a nude,” Derek said. He had to shut his eyes. “And the light is gone.”

“I know,” Stiles said. His hand ghosted up Derek’s arm, just the barest brush against the hairs there and the base of his spine was warming. “And you’re not even paying me anything to be here, yet here I am. Funny, how totally un-obligated I feel to be standing here right now, and yet, I am. So, maybe, we could find something else to do, if you’re willing.”

His hand, finally, landed on the nape of Derek’s neck. When the fingernails started gently scratching, he let himself look again.

Stiles was closer than he thought.

“Kiss me,” Stiles said.

That was the push Derek needed. He leaned forwards, a centimeter, an inch, two inches, and then their lips were brushing against one another. Stiles drew him down further, and Derek pressed into his mouth.

Stiles’s second hand joined the first, scratching from Derek’s shoulders down his back, and the sheet fell with a soft crumpling noise. He shuddered, and he could feel Stiles smiling into the kiss. Soon, they were standing there grinding, the hot wet tip of Stiles’s dick leaving streaks against both of their stomachs.

 

Derek grabbed him by the thighs and reveled in Stiles’s gasp when he lifted him, and then dropped him onto the bed.

He gently mouthed across the juncture between jaw and neck, and Stiles outright moaned, thrusting up into Derek’s clothed him.

Next, he placed a kiss on his Adam’s apple, and then down his ribcage. He sucked one nipple between his teeth, and just like the last time, Stiles’s hands found their way to Derek’s hair.

Derek adored the gasps, the groans, the shivers. He loved the little pleading noises. The subtle but firm musculature, the hip bones, the angular jaw. He’d been with his fair share of women, too, and successfully; he’d laid them out over this very spot and he’d taken them apart with his hands and tongue to the best of his ability, until they were quivering and sated. Men, though– they were something else. And Stiles was a gorgeous man, who was digging his heels into the mattress and writhing into Derek’s touch.

He pressed his lips against his hips, and then his thighs, and then he took the length of him into his mouth. A broken whimper escaped Stiles’s lips, and his eyes fluttered shut. How long had it been since somebody else had touched him like this, or even offered? Derek didn’t want to know; he thought he wouldn’t like the answer.

Stiles’s hands in Derek’s hair tightened. Derek put his tongue to good use, dragging it up the thin vein on the underside, swirling it around the tip, and then eventually, diving until his nose was in the wiry thickets of Stiles’s hair.

He bobbed his heads like that for a few moments, with Stiles wriggling under him, lost in pleasure, until he let out a low whine and really fisted Derek’s dark curls. Derek pulled off just in time for Stiles to shoot come across his face, striping up his cheek and even landing partially in his hair.

When Stiles opened his eyes, his mouth fell open and he pulled Derek up to kiss him.

“God,” he said. “Look at you. Christ, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.”

He scrutinized Derek’s cheek with a certain kind of curiosity, and then looked down to where Derek was still tented in his pants, painfully hard and leaking to the point of forming a dark spot near one of the buttons.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Derek said, but even he could tell how pathetically desperate he sounded. Stiles grinned.

“Oh, but I want to.”

He unbuttoned Derek with brutal efficiency, and soon those lean fingers were stroking him, twisting at the head, jacking him quickly and roughly. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Derek to grit out a single moan and then come all over himself and his shirt.

 

They lay there gasping together in the wake, and then Stiles laughed and curled into Derek’s messy shirt.

“I need to wash,” Derek said. “We’re both filthy, and you’re naked.”

Stiles laughed and dropped one leg off of the bed, reaching for his clothes with it until he finally caught his pants between two toes and pulled it in towards himself.

Then, he grabbed a paint rag and tossed it at the back of Derek’s head with an impish giggle.

“Here, you can use that to clean yourself,” Stiles said, and Derek gave him an unimpressed look but did so anyway.

***

They were still lying there together when the first crackle of thunder came, and the first few drops of rain jetting through the giant gap in Derek’s ceiling. Stiles watched him curse, and run to grab what looked like a fractured door from the corner of the room, before angling it up and fitting it in a very makeshift way into the hole.

Stiles, now fully clothed, made his way over, and stood with the now drenched-Derek under the leakage. A few drops of water landed on his forehead, and he rubbed them around.

“That’s a good look on you,” Stiles said, and it was– wet shirt clinging to Derek’s muscular chest. Derek rolled his eyes, and drew him in for another kiss.  
At that moment, the door burst open with a loud thump. Stiles sighed, and turned his head.

Scott and Allison stood in the doorway, dripping, arms wrapped around one another with a kind of desperation unknown to Stiles, hair long and pasted to their foreheads. Allison was shivering. The moment they saw him, Scott’s expression turned to one of confusion.

“Stiles?” he said, and then, “Derek?”

“What is it, Scotty boy?” Stiles asked. Scott shook his head, and when he looked up again, his face was more sorrowful than judgmental.

“I need your help,” he said, but he wasn’t looking to Stiles. Derek’s eyebrows lowered, and his expression darkened.

Scott’s hand curled protectively around Allison’s stomach, pressing into the folds of her nice dress and burying itself in the drenched layers of fabric. She closed her eyes, and Stiles wasn’t sure if he spotted a tear or a droplet rolling down from her forehead.

 

“She’s pregnant,” Scott said.

“Shit,” Stiles said.

“The Argents are sending some men out to get me, to get her– Duke’s men,” Scott said.

Derek’s gaze hardened.

“Who knows you came here?” Derek asked grimly.

“We didn’t tell anyone,” Scott said. Derek ground his teeth.

“Good,” he said. Then, after a moment, “You can stay here for now, until you feel comfortable finding a more permanent place.”

Scott gave Derek a look of such intense gratefulness that Stiles wanted to weep.

“Thank you,” Scott said. “Thank you so much.”

***

“I’ve thought about what you said,” Lydia said. Stiles was sitting next to her in her coach, feeling up the soft padded walls and beautiful cushions. The square area that he was sitting on was probably worth more than his life, but of course Lydia was nonplussed by both the totally ridiculous value of her family’s possessions and Stiles’s obvious discomfort.

“What did I say?” Stiles asked. The city rolled by through the window.

“You told me to accept Jackson’s proposal,” she said. The carefully placed strawberry curls bounced around her face as they rode. “I think I’ll do it.”

“Did Peter do something creepy?” Stiles asked. Lydia huffed, then shrugged.

“No– well, not quite. Nothing worse than usual. But I’ve got a feeling that he’ll be taking this up to the next level pretty soon,” she said, “and I really don’t want to know what that looks like.”

“Understandable,” Stiles said. He wondered if Peter had always just sucked so much, generally speaking.

“And you, Stiles? How have you been doing?” Curt, perfunctory. She was wearing an expression of staunch nobility, looking straight out the window. But Stiles had known her for a long time; he’d known her almost as long as he’d known Scott, and he’d even thought of marrying her once, when he still possessed illusions of a grand, powerful love that could pull anyone away from their stations and into a life of satisfied living, before he was getting fucked in the ass for a living. As perfect as Lydia had always been, as composed and willful, he could tell that she was frightened, by the too-quick too-frequent blinks, by the way she squeezed her gloved hands together in her lap.

“Things have been strange, lately,” he said. He scratched his arm and frowned. “There’s been trouble with Allison and Scott...”

“Has there?” she asked, turning back to look at him. Genuinely interested. He smiled weakly.

The carriage came to a stop, and Lydia jolted forwards with alarming force.

“Are you alright?” Stiles asked. A strand of hair flew into her mouth and she plucked it off carefully. She didn’t bother responding, but leaned out the window slightly.

“Christopher, what’s going on?” she asked, but her driver wasn’t there. Only the horses, tethered to the vehicle, restless.

Out of the corner of his window, Stiles glimpsed what he thought could be a familiar figure with long, dark hair– but there were many women in the city. His chest was tight, and he could feel it jumping rapidly under his hand.

Lydia, for her part, had schooled her face into a mask of smooth irritation.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, I’m not entirely sure what’s going on,” she said.

Peter’s face slid into the frame of the window, entirely too close for comfort.

“Hello, Lydia,” he said with his most charming smile, then his gaze ticked curiously back to Stiles slouching next to her. “Stiles. I didn’t realize you... knew each other.”

“Stiles is an old friend,” she said politely.

“He and I actually work together; he’s one of my best employees,” Peter said, smirking cruelly.

“I’m perfectly aware of his profession,” she shot back.

“If you should ever be interested in something similar, I would only be inclined to aid you,” he said.

“How charming,” she replied. Her tone was dry, her eyebrows were flat and unamused. “Do you court all women in this manner, or am I unique?”

“I do not court most women, and in that way you certainly are unique,” he said. “I think I have a lot to offer you, Miss Martin. Consider the young Whittemore who seeks you similarly– he has no profession, and over time the money will slip through his irresponsible fingers and he will no longer be able to pay for the things you deserve. On the other hand, my profession is the oldest. He may fall out of favor with the Pope tomorrow, and he and his assets would be fleeing to the country. My kind already has fallen from favor with the Pope, but no earthly power can remove us. Jackson exists in a more glamorous and superficial world, but in reality, I have power here, and nothing can move me from this city.”

“Perhaps,” Lydia said. “Or, maybe, you would be removed and it would be your business that would survive and thrive without you.”

Peter’s smile dropped into a scowl, but only briefly; then he was laughing in a way that made Stiles very uneasy. Behind him, on the street corner, Lydia’s driver came into view, roughed up a little bit and talking loudly with someone whose back was turned. A fist was swung, there was a smack-thud, and Lydia gasped.

“You are a strong woman, and I admire that,” Peter said.

He stepped back slowly, vanishing into the shadows, joined on either side by identical figures. They gestured, and the man standing above Lydia’s driver turned to join them. As he did so, Stiles caught his smile, the familiar eyes. Duke?

The driver pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to the window.

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am, they–” he began.

“Never mind that,” she said. “Let’s continue on. Quickly, please.”

She kept her eyes closed and breathing almost even for the rest of the ride, and when they arrived at the tailor’s she was hardly enthused. Nevertheless, she put effort into seeming happily unaffected, and picked out a few things for Stiles.

***

When Stiles got back to Peter’s place, he folded away his new clothing and then went to look for Derek. Derek, of course, was not available; probably painting at Deaton’s. So Stiles put in a few shifts, making nervous conversation with a few of the regulars and pointedly not thinking about Peter. Sometime later, he bought some bread from across the street and brought it over to Erica with the remains of the fruit. She smiled kindly at him, and offered him a seat on her bed.

“Boyd hasn’t been around lately,” Stiles said. She shook her head.

“He’s being a dick,” she said. “I can’t just quit when a man asks me to. If that were the case, nobody would still be working here. I mean, what would I do for work?”

“You could be a seamstress. I heard there are some positions open locally. Or farming– always a lucrative career choice,” he said. She laughed. “You could dress up as a man and become a baker.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Cora might be able to get away with that, but I don’t have the body type or face shape,” she said. This was, Stiles had to concede, very true.

“Has he gotten any work lately?” Stiles asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Some work. The pay’s not bad, either, but not enough for two people.”

Stiles hesitated before he spoke again.

“Have you... talked to your mom lately?”

Erica let her eyes drift shut and took a deep breath.

“My life choices, plus Boyd? She wouldn’t give us anything,” Erica said. “I brought some stuff over to her house, the other day, and I went in briefly to pick up something  up... she wasn’t very pleased to see me.”

 

Stiles frowned.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shook her head, and gave a weak smile.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “What does matter is that I can survive on my own in this city, which is more than most of these bitches can claim.”

And there she was, surviving, much in the same way Boyd was surviving– smeary red lipstick and cheap corsets and blouses with strings worn down to swiss cheese, huddled on the corner of a straw mattress in a dimly lit room.

That’s when Scott stormed in– huffing and puffing, boots undone, hair in a curly mess on his forehead.

“Have you seen Derek?” he asked. Stiles quirked an eyebrow.

“Isn’t off doing something artistic?” Stiles asked. Scott shook his head furiously, and it was like there was a little storm cloud of frizz hovering around his head.

“I went to Deaton, I asked Boyd if he’d seen him– there’s been a bit of trouble, with Duke. Threats. Stuff we need to take care of as soon as possible,” Scott said.

“Erica? Have you seen him?” Stiles asked. She shook her head.

In moments, he was off his feet and out the door, Scott frantically scurrying behind him.

“Caitlyn? Have you seen a guy, about my height, dark hair, broody, lives here, Peter’s nephew, coming in or out recently?” Stiles asked. She shook her head. He moved to the next open door. “Julia– male, hot, tall, dark hair. Seen him? He did the portrait of Erica.”

Someone whistled behind him, and he swiveled on his heels.

“Oy, Stiles,” she said, and there was Harley, beautiful and ferocious, leaning against her doorway. “I saw a guy covered in paints hanging outside the building this morning.”

“See, Scott?” Stiles said. “He’s around, right? Which way was he going?”

“He wasn’t,” she said. “There were guards.”

“Fuck,” Erica said. Stiles hadn’t even realized she was still listening, but suddenly she was darting forwards with her jaw dropped. “What about us? Are they coming back?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Harley said. “It seemed pretty final. Plus, Peter’s got his business pretty well insured, if you get what I mean. The police are on our side.”  
Stiles felt dizzy, he could feel himself keeling over. Distantly, like it was through water, he could hear Erica asking him if he was okay. Her hand stroking his back, soothing, moderately confused. He was wheezing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck...”

With only half a breath in his lungs, he started running– down the stairs, out the door. He hadn’t put any shoes on, he was barefoot, his calloused heels were kicking up dust behind him. He swerved around the carts with the food and the people, huddled in groups; the street dogs, rabid and dirty, scrambled out of his path.

The courthouse was more than a mile away, and if wasn’t very long before he found himself pressing through the doors and past the crowds swarming, awaiting the trial of a big duke or another.

He found a guard, standing next to the stairs leading down. Moments later, he couldn’t even remember the lie he told to get him down, but there he was– walking carefully down the cold aisle of cells. They were full, five or seven men to a one, and Derek’s was no exception. He was huddled in the back, hands on the wall, looking down, muscles clenched.

Stiles pressed his hand gently into the cool of the metal bars, suddenly unsure, hyper aware of all the people.

“Derek,” he said softly, and then cautiously added in, “Brother.”

Derek swiveled, and his gaze focused on Stiles’s face. He stepped forwards.

“Stiles?”

“Yes,” he said. “We don’t have much time. Who brought you here?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said, and Stiles could see on his face a look of desperate anger and bewilderment.

Stiles took a deep breath.

“It’s good to see you,” he said. “Oh! And Scott said he needed to talk to you about Duke, I guess there’ve been some threats coming in that needed to be taken care of.

This is probably it, right?”

“Maybe,” Derek said. “But there might be more coming. Be cautious.” Stiles felt the guard tugging on his sleeve.

“When’s your trial?” he said, even as he was grabbed by the arm and tugged away.

“Tomorrow,” Derek called down the hall, and his hand reaching out to chase Stiles into the hall was silhouetted by the small torch, planted firmly in the stone.

***

That night in an hour so dead nothing could be heard but the light creaking of the beds, two people entered.

Peter watched them glide by, leaning casually against the doorframe like he always was, cooly staring. Of course, Stiles couldn’t see that, didn’t know that; all he knew was the slow press of hard boots into weathered wooden floors, the achingly slow movement of feet, heel to toe, and the solid anticipation of a rap at his door.

There was none.

Just a few rooms over, there was a light thumping and a gasp.

His eyes were closed tight, and then they were open, yearning, searching out the space.

He didn’t realize the shape of a dark figure in front of him on that dark evening until he could feel the heat of his body radiating onto the side of his exposed arm.

In moments he swung himself off the bed and backed into the wall; bad move.

Four cold, gloved fingers squeezed deftly around his jaw.

“So you’re Derek’s new bitch,” the voice came.

He let his eyes flutter shut.

“Duke,” he said.

He could feel the breath on the tip of his nose, now. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to know how close they were.

He reached out blindly to push Duke away at the chest, but found his two slim wrists encircled by just one larger hand.

He tried to laugh, and it sounded weak.

“If you want to test the merchandise, you have to pay,” Stiles said. He found himself pushed harder into the wall, shoulder blades grinding against stone. “Just like old times.”

Duke chuckled, and briefly the grip on Stiles’s face loosened, pads of the fingers dusting his cheek. They trailed behind his ear, and down across his chin, then clamped down hard on Stiles’s throat.

He tried to gasp, and his head pressed back.

“Maybe I could pay you for something else instead, hm?” Duke asked. Breath, hot on his earlobe. Stiles finally looked, and in the darkness he could see the vaguest shadows of his cheekbones, the creases by his lips. “Tell me where the Argent girl is.”

Upstairs. Hiding, huddled over a slew of colorfully tinted jars, covered in dark wool. Sleeping. Pure and beautiful, under Scott’s careful gaze.

Stiles was silent.

“Tell me,” Duke said. He yanked Stiles’s head forward and slammed him back. He let out the bests of a low moan.

“I don’t know,” Stiles croaked out. The hand on his throat was getting tighter– but then suddenly, it was gone.

There was a sharp and hard blow to the side of his face, and he stumbled onto the floor, curling in on himself. He expected something more– a kick in the stomach, a cracked rib. Nothing.

“Tell Derek this isn’t the last of it,” Duke said. He sounded distant.

When Stiles looked up, he was gone.

Moments later a high wail broke out. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped into the hall; it was coming from an all too familiar room.

He burst through the door.

Her hair was tied to the side, blonde strands cascading over one shoulder. Both hands were cupped around one cheek, shaking.

He gently pulled her wrists away to reveal a single oozing slash, running from her ear almost to her lip.

Piercing blue eyes found his.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She took in quick bursts of breath, and shook to pieces on his shoulder.

***

It was the second time in his life Derek was lucky enough not to have anyone testify against him; it was damaging to the reputation, sure, but he wasn’t a politician. He was just an artist, and freed after only one day.

The first thing he was confronted with after his release was Stiles, bitterly looking at a canvas in his bedroom, gently thumbing a dark patch on his cheek.

“What’s that?” Derek asked. Stiles was silent.

There was the back of his slim figure; bruised, shoulders sagging, eyebrows drawn tight together. On the other side, a much happier boy, clutching a wicker basket, lips parted slightly, eyes looking towards the rays of sunshine beaming in through the roof.

Stiles’s eyes traced the lines of paint, and the swimming darkness of the background.

“Duke paid us a visit,” he finally said.

“Duke?” Derek asked. “How?”

“What do you mean, how?” Stiles said. “There’s a door, and some stairs, and another door.”

“He–”

“You should see Erica,” Stiles said. “She won’t be getting as much work, now. I guess Boyd got his wish in the end.”

“Is she okay?”

Stiles shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. His voice was cracking, but he probably didn’t realize it. “Yeah, she’s okay, I guess. But is she okay? I don’t know.”

“Are you okay?” Derek asked. Stiles shrugged again.

“I’m glad you’re out,” Stiles said.

“So am I,” Derek said.

“Maybe it’d be better if you stayed in,” Stiles said. “He said he’s coming back.”

“Let him,” Derek said. Stiles shook his head.

“You don’t mean that.”

Moments later, Derek made a small noise of frustration. He stomped his foot and hunched in on himself.

“I can’t let him hurt you any more,” Derek said. He gently touched the bruise, and Stiles flinched. “This already shouldn’t have happened. This is my fault.”

Stiles yanked his hand away, and Derek diverted his eyes, so Stiles snapped in his face. Derek looked up, and what he saw there was cold and hard.

“Don’t linger on this,” Stiles said. “It isn’t your fault. Apologize to Erica if you want, but not to me. We were all just protecting Allison.”

Allison, who was sleeping in the corner.

The front door slammed open so hard Derek could even hear it, and he winced.

“Shit,” Stiles said. He looked at her. “Shit, shit, shit. Oh, fuck.”

“I’ll go see,” Derek said. “Worst case scenario– run.”

Stiles nodded vigorously, and as soon as Derek saw that affirmation he was bounding down.

One or two of the other prostitutes had gathered curiously in the halls.

He saw Peter, looking somewhat concernedly up at him–

And then, in the center of the entrance, hands on hips, was Cora.

“Derek!” she said. “I think we should have a little chat.”

***

Cora was so much more than Stiles had ever seen. In every way, she was intense– her gaze was intense, her handshake, the way she commanded the presence of everyone in the room around her. She told Stiles to sit down on Derek’s couch, and he was compelled to do so.

She checked the door before she started speaking.

“I was just down at the courthouse, selling some of my wares to a fine gentleman I’d made an arrangement with quite a while ago,” she said. She was wearing pants– slit up the side of one leg, and a masculine blouse tied loosely at the top. She was unsmiling. “Not myself, of course, but things collected overseas– you know how it goes. Trifles of silvers, golds, ivories, et cetera. All being said, this was a somewhat wealthy gentleman, as you might assume; one who is aware of such information as might be valuable to you.”

“Really?” Derek asked, unconvinced. “And what information might that be?”

“See, he said to me,” she said, “that he’d seen another Hale in the courthouse recently, for a very different reason.”

“I wasn’t convicted,” he said. “Nobody came forward.”

“Yes, which I heard later,” she said. “But that wasn’t the Hale he was talking about.”

Silence.

“What exactly are you implying, Cora?” he asked, expression dark. She matched him, and when he stood she moved comfortably into his space.

“That Peter implicated you, and that you should be cautious,” she said. Stiles would have staggered back if he was standing.

“Peter would never–”

“Peter would, and you know it,” she said.

Stiles looked up at Derek.

“I think I may have seen him with one of Duke’s men,” Stiles said. Derek whipped around.

“And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“I wasn’t sure!” Stiles said. “He’s your uncle, I didn’t want to start shit.”

Derek sighed, but it faded into a low growl.

“Why are you telling me this?” Derek asked.

“Why?” Cora asked. “Because we care about each other, Derek! And Peter never really has. Because I don’t want you to go to jail again, or you to be severely injured, or your friends, or any of the lovely youths that work here.”

 

Derek squinted at her.

“You want control of the business,” he said. Her jaw stiffened.

“Listen–” she said. “I could run it so much better than he could. You know that. I’m smarter, I’m faster, I have more worldly experience. I could be so much nicer.”

He grit his teeth.

“You’re a lot more like him than you realize,” he said.

She barely flinched.

“Thank you for the tip,” he said.

“I know someone I could put you in contact with,” she said, “if you need help.”

“Help?” he asked.

“Help defending yourself,” she said. “I know a guy.”

***

Jackson was smart, and classically trained in the arts of fencing and sword fighting. He was highly conspicuous, and not overly concerned with hiding his noble appearance– However, most importantly, he weaned a deep and fiery hatred for Peter Hale.

“Him?” Derek asked.

“Jackson,” Stiles greeted curtly. Jackson said nothing in response. It was dark out; the night was quiet and everyone was looming in the streets.

They waited in the alleys by the docks, in the grimy streets. It looked like it pained Jackson just to be there.

At the end of the street, they could see Peter wandering confusedly. His face tightened, and he pulled a note from his pocket once again.

Derek made his move.

“Looking for someone?” he asked. Peter looked up, startled, and stumbled back half a step.

“Derek,” he said. “How lovely to see you on this pleasant night. What, pray tell, are you doing out in the middle of fucking nowhere?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Derek said. “But I think I already know.”

Peter’s fake smile dropped.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.

“I think you are,” Derek replied. He stepped forwards, and for once, not totally self assured, Peter took a step back. “Have you, possibly, been corresponding with a known enemy of mine? For example: Duke. Does that name ring any bells for you, perchance?”

 

“Easy, Derek,” Peter said. “I’m not sure you understand what you’re saying.”

“And then there’s this whole Lydia affair,” Derek said. “Has anyone told you how creepy you are? And of course, Erica’s blood on your hands. Were they trying to take her life, or was it just disfigurement this one time?”

“I don’t–”

“And of course Stiles,” he said. “And Allison. She’s so sweet, but I’m not sure you’ve ever taken the time to learn that for yourself. Oh, and how about putting me in jail? What ever happened to family loyalties?”

 

Peter looked him sternly in the eye.

“Pull yourself together, Derek,” he said. “Business is business, you don’t understand–”

That was when the first hit fall, with the second following shortly after. Peter swung and very nearly landed a punch, but Jackson chose that moment to storm out and shove into him. Simultaneously three knives were drawn, glinting in the moonlight.

All three of them were circling at once.

“Oh, I see,” Peter said, licking at his freshly split lip. “Young Derek, finally finding his feet.”

“Fuck you,” Derek said, “I’ve been fighting for a while now.”

“And I suppose you know what you’re doing then, do you?” Peter said. He slashed outwards and caught the sleeve of Derek’s shirt.

They were slowly edging towards the water.

“Yeah, I’d say that,” Derek said. “Is it a good deal for you, making your own workers less desirable?”

“Always another one to replace them,” Peter said.

“So people just mean nothing to you then,” Derek said.

“Some people mean more than others,” Peter said. “You, for example; I would rather not have to do this, but.”

He lunged, and his blade dragged swiftly against Derek’s side. He staggered back.

“Derek!” Stiles cried from the alley, and damn him, he started running. He’d barely touched a finger to Derek’s cheek before Peter had him in hand, pressed tight against the front of his body, red knife pulling stains across Stiles’s throat.

“Fuck you,” Derek said. “Don’t bring him into this. This is between us.”

“Us?” Peter asked. “And who is us, exactly? You and your ten closest friends? There are more people out there, aren’t there?”

Jackson looked like he was considering going for it, but Peter caught the rabid look in his eye.

“Would Lydia ever forgive you?” Peter asked. “She certainly wouldn’t love you, and definitely not marry you. You know how valuable this little thing here is to her.”

“You’re bluffing,” Jackson said.

“It wouldn’t be the first life I’ve taken,” Peter said. “I’ve heard that it gets easier with time.”

So it was that Peter wasn’t even looking when the knife went into his side, digging deep into the fleshy grooves of his body, thrust in until Derek saw the pulsing of his hands and Stiles stumbled free from his grasp, until the knife fell with a sharp clang to the streets.

Peter’s body fell with a very distinct splash into the ocean.

Panting, Derek turned to look at his own hand, glistening red. He stared down into the alley. He felt the faintest touch at his chest, and noticed Stiles mouthing something at him that he couldn’t hear. Then, he collapsed.

***

Twelve hours later, he found himself staring down at the same briny waters where he could only assume Peter’s body had drifted from. Stiles held a rolled canvas in his arms, and Scott held Allison’s hand. Cora watched on silently.

“I want to tell Lydia goodbye,” Allison said quietly. Cora smiled, and patted her on the shoulder.

“I’ll let her know,” she said. Scott squeezed comfortingly, and their eyes met. Stiles ran to him and they hugged fiercely for a moment, before he stepped back. He watched them for a moment as they climbed onto the boat, then turned to the pressure at his side.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Derek said. Stiles smiled faintly, but his eyes were wet. He shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll all be fine.”

“Apologize to Erica for me,” Derek said. “She needs to know.”

“I will, but she’ll say the same thing as me,” Stiles said. He held the rolled canvas out to Derek. “Are you ready?” But Derek pressed it back against his chest.

“It’s for you,” Derek said. Stiles shook his head, and looked down the tube. “Yes. Something to remember me by.”

“I can’t,” Stiles said. “It’s too beautiful.”

Derek smiled.

“You will.”

Stiles smiled.

“Cora will take good care of me,” Stiles said.

“I know,” Derek said.

“I’m just reminding you,” Stiles said. “You were starting to look a little bit concerned.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” Derek said, He discreetly kissed Stiles’s forehead, and dipped in to press his lips to his ear. “I love you.”

And then Stiles was watching his retreating back as he followed the others into the massive wooden ship.

Cora came to stand next to him.

“You’ll see him again,” she said.

“How can you be sure?” he asked.

“Because I know I will,” she said. Two men were beginning to close the door. “And I might even take you with me.”

He looked at her, briefly, and then back at the wooden mass in front of him.

“Fuck that,” he said, and he ran.

He barely made it through the doors on time.

**Author's Note:**

> There is some reference to religion in this because, while none of the characters in this story are as obsessively Christian as those of Baroque period Rome after whom they were almost modeled, Fake Rome does have a tiny bit of Christianity in it. That being said, it is brief and infrequent.
> 
> Caravaggio AU starring Derek as a kinder, saner Caravaggio and Stiles as his prostitute lover.  
> Nec Spe Nec Metu is the slogan Caravaggio's artist street gang used to tag the walls with, and translates roughly to: Without Hope, Without Fear. If any of this seems rediculous to you: that's why I decided to write a fanfiction about it. The painting I was thinking of for the one Stiles poses in is "Boy With A Basket Of Fruit." Follow this link if you want to see an unknown Andrew Garfield act this painting out in the gayest way ever, and then I have to recommend the entire documentary because it is just so fab: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX_KWIvIVM8


End file.
